Trials, Temptation and Triumph - Ch 8.5 (Charlie/Shark, NC-17)
In which Charlie creates a valentine for Rory.
For introduction and warnings go here
Author's Note: this chapter uses material and lyrics from the Second Tour of Finland website, with permission from the amazing acroamatica.
8.5 - Valentine
Wednesday 11 February 2004
Charlie looked at the jewellery in the window, seeing the necklaces and bracelets and lockets - all shaped like hearts. It was, of course, three days before St Valentine's Day, and he wanted to find something to tell Rory how much he meant to him.
He stood there for several minutes, unseeing, trying to think of something he could get Rory that he would like, and that wouldn't cost too much. It wouldn't be jewellery, though, that was too expensive and he didn't have much money of his own. He bit his lip. Be honest, he told himself, you don't have any money of your own.
He wasn't precisely destitute - Rory had put money in his bank account and given him a credit card - but Charlie still felt like he had nothing that was really his. The royalty cheques were few and far between these days, and he would be back on the dole shortly, not that it was worth much: it would barely pay for the food he was eating, let alone rent or heating or clothes.
Sometimes he felt as if the last four years were just a dream, that he was still Rory's rent-boy. Then he'd catch sight of himself in a mirror or shop window, and the illusion would vanish. He didn't look like that eager boy any more. He didn't feel like him any more. He felt old, and thin, and jaded, and tired, and he couldn't understand how Rory could keep on looking after him, taking him to the chemist for methadone every day, making sure he got to his meetings and his doctor's appointments, organising that therapist referral, even buying him some light weights so he could tone up without risking a sprain.
He was totally dependent on Rory and he hated it.
Wearily, he turned around and headed for the only other place he could be sure of a warm welcome.
"Hello, there, dear," said his mother with a smile as she opened the door. "What a lovely surprise. Come on in out of the cold."
"Thanks Mum," he said as he gave her a hug.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine, Mum. Really," he added, as she looked at him shrewdly. "I'm taking the stuff every day, rain or shine. Or snow."
"And how's Rory?"
"He's fine, too."
"When are the two of you coming over again?"
"We could come over this weekend, if you like."
"That would be lovely." She pottered around, making tea. "I do miss those big family lunches we used to have. It's not the same now you've all gone."
"You've still got Kevin."
"But for how long? You've heard he doesn't want to go to university? He wants to be an electrician, he's applying for an apprenticeship after he does his GCE."
Charlie grinned. "Well, that's hardly a surprising choice, considering he's taken almost every appliance in the house to pieces. About time he learned how to put them back together again." He took the cup of tea Meg proffered. "Thanks. Remember when he took my bass apart and I came in and found all the pieces on the bedroom floor?
Meg smiled. "He was only ten."
"We almost missed a gig because of that," he said, remembering how he and Liam had worked frantically to reconnect all the knobs and wires. "We had to get Mr Murray's soldering iron from across the road because a couple of the connections had broken. I was so angry with him."
"I think he realised that, after you walloped his backside."
"Yeah, well, it got the message across, didn't it? He never touched my stuff after that."
"You moved out soon after, anyway."
"Aye, I did." He paused, remembering the year he'd moved out.
"You're picking up Rory's mannerisms again, love," Meg chided him, gently.
"Huh?"
"Aye?"
He blushed. "Sorry. It's just that Rory's the only one I talk to most days."
"Is that a problem?"
"Not really - I do love him, you know."
"I had guessed it was something of the sort."
He started fidgeting with his mug, trying to work out exactly what he wanted to say. "It's just that... ever since I got back to Manchester, he's looked after me - you know that - and, well, it's Valentine's Day on Saturday, and I want to get him something really special, but I don't have any money, at least no money that isn't his to start with. And no, I'm not asking for any, either," he added quickly, as Meg made an almost-instinctive move towards her handbag. "I still owe you for last year, anyway." He sighed. "I just want advice, I think. About what I can get him that doesn't cost much but tells him how I feel about him; how much he means to me."
"Does it have to be something tangible? Something solid?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Well, you could do something for him. Sing him a song, or give him a massage or something. A small bottle of massage oil wouldn't cost much, and you could say that ten massages are included. Or if there's something that he particularly likes, in bed, you could offer that."
Charlie felt his face reddening and squirmed in his seat. "Mum ..."
"Well, dear, I'm not going to pretend you just sleep in that bed of yours," she teased. "All right, love, I'll be serious. What can you do that he can't? Or, at least, do much better than him?"
Charlie thought about that for a minute. "Play guitar, play piano. Play videogames. Make jokes. Get into trouble."
"Don't be negative. Why don't you play him something?"
"Haven't played in months. Don't have a guitar any more. And I just can't ask him to buy me one - he's done so much already. I feel like I'm just sponging off him."
Meg tapped her finger on the table, deep in thought for a moment, then got up. "Stay here," she told Charlie. "I'll be right back."
She returned carrying a guitar in a vinyl case. "I thought I'd seen this last year when we cleared out the back room - it's Liam's old guitar. He left it behind when he went to Australia, and we kept it in case Kevin wanted to play. He did, for a while, but never took to it like you and Liam did. You should have it now."
Charlie unzipped the bag and took out the guitar - it was acoustic, of course, not electric, but that didn't matter. He remembered that the tone had been good. He stroked his hand over the body, disturbing the faintest patina of dust on the golden-brown lacquer, but found no cracks. He hoisted it onto his knee and ran a finger over the strings, but they were well out of tune, and he pulled a face. Still, it was fantastic to hold a guitar again, to feel the notes thrumming though his body. Almost imperceptibly, he hummed a little as he analysed the notes and start to fiddle with the tuning knobs.
His mother spoke, wresting his attention from the instrument. "Charlie, love, I have to go in a minute - I'm due at the hospital at two. Why don't you stay here and practice for a little bit?"
Charlie nodded, and smiled as he looked up. "I'll do that." He put the guitar on the table and stood up to give his mother a hug. "Thanks, Mum," he said, "you don't know what it means to me, to have a guitar again."
"I can see, love."
The light in her eyes must reflect his own, he thought, and he kissed her cheek. "I'll take care of it."
"I know you will." She patted his cheek and started getting ready to go out. "There's food in the fridge if you want something to eat. If Kevin gets home before you leave, make sure he goes up and does his homework before he switches on that Playstation."
"Yes, Mum."
"I mean that, Charlie. The three of you spoil him rotten. And don't forget to bring Rory over to lunch on Sunday."
"I won't."
Charlie's smile faded as she closed the door behind her, and he looked at the guitar.
"Well, old girl," he said, "I guess it's just you and me now."
He picked up the guitar and strummed a few chords. He grimaced at the sound, adjusted the tuning, and tried again. This time the tone was sweet, and he smiled as the notes rang out.
They had been Christmas presents, these guitars, one for Liam and one for Charlie. They'd been so pleased with them, so happy to be able to play at home instead of borrowing the school instruments for an hour at a time. They'd spent all their free time learning their favourite songs, some from sheet music, some from just listening, playing the guitars all day, every day until their parents threatened to take them back to the shop.
He smiled at the memory. Halcyon days, they'd been - he and Liam had got on better that year than any time before or since. Things had started to go downhill when they'd formed their embryo band with Pat, and Liam had started throwing his weight around, convinced he was the 90s answer to Eddie van Halen. Charlie snorted - Liam had always had an inflated idea of his talents. Still, his brother was on the other side of the world now, and Charlie was rebuilding his life, and if Liam's old guitar helped him to do that, he wasn't going to complain about its previous owner.
He played around for a while, just letting his hands adapt to the proportions of the instrument, then tried a couple of songs. He sighed at the result. He was very rusty - hardly surprising, as it was months since he'd played his bass, and years since he'd touched a six-string. It would take a while before he was able to play at anything approaching his normal level. But at least he was here, and alive, and he had a guitar to play. There was a time, not so long ago, when he thought that he'd never play again, when he wasn’t sure how much longer he'd survive.
He flexed his fingers and wrists - they were aching already - and started to play some finger exercises. Boring, yes, but necessary. He was going to have to learn how to be a musician, not just a bass player. He owed it to Rory. He owed it to his parents. Most of all, he owed it to himself.
Saturday 14 February 2004
Charlie woke at seven and smiled when he saw the red glowing figures on the clock. He hadn't been sure that he could do it, but apparently his Mum was right (as usual). He'd told himself to wake up at seven, and here he was.
He got up slowly, so as not to disturb Rory, who was still snoring softly on the other side of the bed, and reached for his dressing gown. He quietly drew the guitar out where he'd hidden it under the bed, and set it up against the wall. With luck it wouldn't fall over before it got back.
He slipped out of the room and went to the main bathroom, looking sternly at his prick and telling it to settle down. There was a lot to do before he could even think of getting back into bed with Rory, though he had high hopes that they'd end up in a happy tangle of limbs before the day was much older.
He crept down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and started getting things ready on a tray: a pot of tea and two mugs, several slices of toast, butter and marmalade, and a gift-wrapped box of Lindt chocolates that he knew were Rory's favourites.
At twenty-five minutes past seven he was climbing the stairs again, the tray heavy in his hands. The dull grey light filtering through a crack in the curtains told him that he didn't have much time, and he settled the tray on the chest of drawers while he drew the curtains back.
Rory stirred, and Charlie hurried over to his own side of the bed, picking up the guitar and strummed a soft chord. That was a good sign - the guitar had kept its tuning overnight.
As Rory opened his eyes and looked at him, Charlie began to sing.
"See me here, in darkness
Know that I have done all that I can ..."
It was a sad tune, in a minor key, and Charlie poured out all his misery and fears, everything he had felt that day he'd come back to Manchester.
"When I was my weakest
You stepped in to heal me, make me whole ..."
He'd have died if Rory hadn't found him that night. They both knew that, though they didn't speak of it - they were too superstitious to discuss death when it was still a possibility. But things were better now, Rory had healed him, had made him whole again, and things were going to be all right.
He looked up at Rory and, right on time, the sun rose over the horizon and flooded the bedroom with pale golden light.
"And here you come
You are my deus ex machina ..."
He smiled at Rory's astonishment. Rory would always be his muse, his other half, his demi-urge. It was only natural that the songs he wrote reflected that.
He played through to the end of the song and put the guitar down. He felt suddenly shy, hoping Rory liked it, not daring to expect that he would.
"Was that for me?" Rory's voice was an awed whisper.
"Yes."
"It's beautiful."
Charlie lifted his eyes and looked at Rory, whose eyes were filled with tears (though he would most certainly deny it). He reached out a hand and Rory took it, pulling Charlie in close for a kiss.
"Happy Valentine's Day, love."
* * *
Breakfast, when they finally got around to it, was cold. Charlie looked at the dry, hard toast and guessed that the tea itself was well and truly stewed by now.
Rory, on the other hand, was hardly fazed at all. "You just pour me out a cup from that pot and then go and make a fresh one. And leave the toast - it'll be fine with a bit of marmalade. We can always go out for lunch."
Charlie brightened at that. He poured them each a mug of tea, adding milk to both and three sugars to Rory's. On seeing Rory's expression he sighed, and added two sugars to his own.
Rory took his with a smile, making sure his hands wrapped around Charlie's completely before he tried to take the weight of the mug. He took a sip and sighed happily. "Just the thing." He set the mug down and started adding butter and marmalade to his toast, smiling up at Charlie. "Fresh tea. Now," he ordered with a smug grin.
Charlie took a swig from his own mug, then picked up the teapot and left the room, pausing only to lick Rory's ear, causing a muffled exclamation and a cry of dismay as the toast landed marmalade-side down on the bedspread. He grinned to himself as he headed down the stairs. Just because you're truly, madly, deeply in love, you don’t have to be mushy all the time.
When he got back, a few minutes later, Rory was still sitting in bed, brushing away the toast crumbs and draining his tea. Charlie poured him a fresh cup and then walked around to his own side of the bed.
There was a small parcel there, on the pillow, wrapped in red paper and tied with silver ribbon.
"What's this?"
Rory mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, "For you."
"You got me a present?"
Rory nodded, and to Charlie's surprise his cheeks were slightly pink.
He was a bit surprised. While they had celebrated Valentine's Day in the past, it had generally been with a dinner or an outing, not presents. He picked the parcel up and looked over at Rory. What on earth could have Rory blushing?
"What is it?"
"Open it, you'll see."
Intrigued, he undid the ribbon and removed the wrapping paper. It was a small box, with a local jeweller's name on the lid. He opened it and found a silver ring. He looked at Rory, astounded.
"I know you miss your rings," said Rory in a low voice.
"I do." It was true, he'd worn rings for so long that his hands felt naked without them. He'd hated having to sell them - he'd hung on to them as long as he could - but the need for heroin had been too strong in the end, and they had followed all of his other possessions, exchanged for drugs. That Rory would have taken the trouble to buy him something that he really wanted brought tears to his eyes and he blinked them away, furiously.
He took the ring and tried it on. It was too large for his ring finger, but fit his middle finger exactly. "Thank you. It's perfect."
Rory blushed again, and Charlie threw his arms around him.
"I love you," he announced, planting kisses all over Rory's face. "You are the most wonderful man in the entire world, and I'm lucky to have you."
"Oh, weesht," muttered Rory.
"You can't fool me, Rory McManus. Beneath that rough, tough Glasgow exterior you're just a mushy romantic."
"Bugger that."
"Bugger me instead, you'll enjoy it more."
And he did.
Chapter 9.1
This entry was originally posted at http://alassenya.dreamwidth.org/83238.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
For introduction and warnings go here
Author's Note: this chapter uses material and lyrics from the Second Tour of Finland website, with permission from the amazing acroamatica.
8.5 - Valentine
Wednesday 11 February 2004
Charlie looked at the jewellery in the window, seeing the necklaces and bracelets and lockets - all shaped like hearts. It was, of course, three days before St Valentine's Day, and he wanted to find something to tell Rory how much he meant to him.
He stood there for several minutes, unseeing, trying to think of something he could get Rory that he would like, and that wouldn't cost too much. It wouldn't be jewellery, though, that was too expensive and he didn't have much money of his own. He bit his lip. Be honest, he told himself, you don't have any money of your own.
He wasn't precisely destitute - Rory had put money in his bank account and given him a credit card - but Charlie still felt like he had nothing that was really his. The royalty cheques were few and far between these days, and he would be back on the dole shortly, not that it was worth much: it would barely pay for the food he was eating, let alone rent or heating or clothes.
Sometimes he felt as if the last four years were just a dream, that he was still Rory's rent-boy. Then he'd catch sight of himself in a mirror or shop window, and the illusion would vanish. He didn't look like that eager boy any more. He didn't feel like him any more. He felt old, and thin, and jaded, and tired, and he couldn't understand how Rory could keep on looking after him, taking him to the chemist for methadone every day, making sure he got to his meetings and his doctor's appointments, organising that therapist referral, even buying him some light weights so he could tone up without risking a sprain.
He was totally dependent on Rory and he hated it.
Wearily, he turned around and headed for the only other place he could be sure of a warm welcome.
"Hello, there, dear," said his mother with a smile as she opened the door. "What a lovely surprise. Come on in out of the cold."
"Thanks Mum," he said as he gave her a hug.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine, Mum. Really," he added, as she looked at him shrewdly. "I'm taking the stuff every day, rain or shine. Or snow."
"And how's Rory?"
"He's fine, too."
"When are the two of you coming over again?"
"We could come over this weekend, if you like."
"That would be lovely." She pottered around, making tea. "I do miss those big family lunches we used to have. It's not the same now you've all gone."
"You've still got Kevin."
"But for how long? You've heard he doesn't want to go to university? He wants to be an electrician, he's applying for an apprenticeship after he does his GCE."
Charlie grinned. "Well, that's hardly a surprising choice, considering he's taken almost every appliance in the house to pieces. About time he learned how to put them back together again." He took the cup of tea Meg proffered. "Thanks. Remember when he took my bass apart and I came in and found all the pieces on the bedroom floor?
Meg smiled. "He was only ten."
"We almost missed a gig because of that," he said, remembering how he and Liam had worked frantically to reconnect all the knobs and wires. "We had to get Mr Murray's soldering iron from across the road because a couple of the connections had broken. I was so angry with him."
"I think he realised that, after you walloped his backside."
"Yeah, well, it got the message across, didn't it? He never touched my stuff after that."
"You moved out soon after, anyway."
"Aye, I did." He paused, remembering the year he'd moved out.
"You're picking up Rory's mannerisms again, love," Meg chided him, gently.
"Huh?"
"Aye?"
He blushed. "Sorry. It's just that Rory's the only one I talk to most days."
"Is that a problem?"
"Not really - I do love him, you know."
"I had guessed it was something of the sort."
He started fidgeting with his mug, trying to work out exactly what he wanted to say. "It's just that... ever since I got back to Manchester, he's looked after me - you know that - and, well, it's Valentine's Day on Saturday, and I want to get him something really special, but I don't have any money, at least no money that isn't his to start with. And no, I'm not asking for any, either," he added quickly, as Meg made an almost-instinctive move towards her handbag. "I still owe you for last year, anyway." He sighed. "I just want advice, I think. About what I can get him that doesn't cost much but tells him how I feel about him; how much he means to me."
"Does it have to be something tangible? Something solid?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Well, you could do something for him. Sing him a song, or give him a massage or something. A small bottle of massage oil wouldn't cost much, and you could say that ten massages are included. Or if there's something that he particularly likes, in bed, you could offer that."
Charlie felt his face reddening and squirmed in his seat. "Mum ..."
"Well, dear, I'm not going to pretend you just sleep in that bed of yours," she teased. "All right, love, I'll be serious. What can you do that he can't? Or, at least, do much better than him?"
Charlie thought about that for a minute. "Play guitar, play piano. Play videogames. Make jokes. Get into trouble."
"Don't be negative. Why don't you play him something?"
"Haven't played in months. Don't have a guitar any more. And I just can't ask him to buy me one - he's done so much already. I feel like I'm just sponging off him."
Meg tapped her finger on the table, deep in thought for a moment, then got up. "Stay here," she told Charlie. "I'll be right back."
She returned carrying a guitar in a vinyl case. "I thought I'd seen this last year when we cleared out the back room - it's Liam's old guitar. He left it behind when he went to Australia, and we kept it in case Kevin wanted to play. He did, for a while, but never took to it like you and Liam did. You should have it now."
Charlie unzipped the bag and took out the guitar - it was acoustic, of course, not electric, but that didn't matter. He remembered that the tone had been good. He stroked his hand over the body, disturbing the faintest patina of dust on the golden-brown lacquer, but found no cracks. He hoisted it onto his knee and ran a finger over the strings, but they were well out of tune, and he pulled a face. Still, it was fantastic to hold a guitar again, to feel the notes thrumming though his body. Almost imperceptibly, he hummed a little as he analysed the notes and start to fiddle with the tuning knobs.
His mother spoke, wresting his attention from the instrument. "Charlie, love, I have to go in a minute - I'm due at the hospital at two. Why don't you stay here and practice for a little bit?"
Charlie nodded, and smiled as he looked up. "I'll do that." He put the guitar on the table and stood up to give his mother a hug. "Thanks, Mum," he said, "you don't know what it means to me, to have a guitar again."
"I can see, love."
The light in her eyes must reflect his own, he thought, and he kissed her cheek. "I'll take care of it."
"I know you will." She patted his cheek and started getting ready to go out. "There's food in the fridge if you want something to eat. If Kevin gets home before you leave, make sure he goes up and does his homework before he switches on that Playstation."
"Yes, Mum."
"I mean that, Charlie. The three of you spoil him rotten. And don't forget to bring Rory over to lunch on Sunday."
"I won't."
Charlie's smile faded as she closed the door behind her, and he looked at the guitar.
"Well, old girl," he said, "I guess it's just you and me now."
He picked up the guitar and strummed a few chords. He grimaced at the sound, adjusted the tuning, and tried again. This time the tone was sweet, and he smiled as the notes rang out.
They had been Christmas presents, these guitars, one for Liam and one for Charlie. They'd been so pleased with them, so happy to be able to play at home instead of borrowing the school instruments for an hour at a time. They'd spent all their free time learning their favourite songs, some from sheet music, some from just listening, playing the guitars all day, every day until their parents threatened to take them back to the shop.
He smiled at the memory. Halcyon days, they'd been - he and Liam had got on better that year than any time before or since. Things had started to go downhill when they'd formed their embryo band with Pat, and Liam had started throwing his weight around, convinced he was the 90s answer to Eddie van Halen. Charlie snorted - Liam had always had an inflated idea of his talents. Still, his brother was on the other side of the world now, and Charlie was rebuilding his life, and if Liam's old guitar helped him to do that, he wasn't going to complain about its previous owner.
He played around for a while, just letting his hands adapt to the proportions of the instrument, then tried a couple of songs. He sighed at the result. He was very rusty - hardly surprising, as it was months since he'd played his bass, and years since he'd touched a six-string. It would take a while before he was able to play at anything approaching his normal level. But at least he was here, and alive, and he had a guitar to play. There was a time, not so long ago, when he thought that he'd never play again, when he wasn’t sure how much longer he'd survive.
He flexed his fingers and wrists - they were aching already - and started to play some finger exercises. Boring, yes, but necessary. He was going to have to learn how to be a musician, not just a bass player. He owed it to Rory. He owed it to his parents. Most of all, he owed it to himself.
Saturday 14 February 2004
Charlie woke at seven and smiled when he saw the red glowing figures on the clock. He hadn't been sure that he could do it, but apparently his Mum was right (as usual). He'd told himself to wake up at seven, and here he was.
He got up slowly, so as not to disturb Rory, who was still snoring softly on the other side of the bed, and reached for his dressing gown. He quietly drew the guitar out where he'd hidden it under the bed, and set it up against the wall. With luck it wouldn't fall over before it got back.
He slipped out of the room and went to the main bathroom, looking sternly at his prick and telling it to settle down. There was a lot to do before he could even think of getting back into bed with Rory, though he had high hopes that they'd end up in a happy tangle of limbs before the day was much older.
He crept down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and started getting things ready on a tray: a pot of tea and two mugs, several slices of toast, butter and marmalade, and a gift-wrapped box of Lindt chocolates that he knew were Rory's favourites.
At twenty-five minutes past seven he was climbing the stairs again, the tray heavy in his hands. The dull grey light filtering through a crack in the curtains told him that he didn't have much time, and he settled the tray on the chest of drawers while he drew the curtains back.
Rory stirred, and Charlie hurried over to his own side of the bed, picking up the guitar and strummed a soft chord. That was a good sign - the guitar had kept its tuning overnight.
As Rory opened his eyes and looked at him, Charlie began to sing.
"See me here, in darkness
Know that I have done all that I can ..."
It was a sad tune, in a minor key, and Charlie poured out all his misery and fears, everything he had felt that day he'd come back to Manchester.
"When I was my weakest
You stepped in to heal me, make me whole ..."
He'd have died if Rory hadn't found him that night. They both knew that, though they didn't speak of it - they were too superstitious to discuss death when it was still a possibility. But things were better now, Rory had healed him, had made him whole again, and things were going to be all right.
He looked up at Rory and, right on time, the sun rose over the horizon and flooded the bedroom with pale golden light.
"And here you come
You are my deus ex machina ..."
He smiled at Rory's astonishment. Rory would always be his muse, his other half, his demi-urge. It was only natural that the songs he wrote reflected that.
He played through to the end of the song and put the guitar down. He felt suddenly shy, hoping Rory liked it, not daring to expect that he would.
"Was that for me?" Rory's voice was an awed whisper.
"Yes."
"It's beautiful."
Charlie lifted his eyes and looked at Rory, whose eyes were filled with tears (though he would most certainly deny it). He reached out a hand and Rory took it, pulling Charlie in close for a kiss.
"Happy Valentine's Day, love."
* * *
Breakfast, when they finally got around to it, was cold. Charlie looked at the dry, hard toast and guessed that the tea itself was well and truly stewed by now.
Rory, on the other hand, was hardly fazed at all. "You just pour me out a cup from that pot and then go and make a fresh one. And leave the toast - it'll be fine with a bit of marmalade. We can always go out for lunch."
Charlie brightened at that. He poured them each a mug of tea, adding milk to both and three sugars to Rory's. On seeing Rory's expression he sighed, and added two sugars to his own.
Rory took his with a smile, making sure his hands wrapped around Charlie's completely before he tried to take the weight of the mug. He took a sip and sighed happily. "Just the thing." He set the mug down and started adding butter and marmalade to his toast, smiling up at Charlie. "Fresh tea. Now," he ordered with a smug grin.
Charlie took a swig from his own mug, then picked up the teapot and left the room, pausing only to lick Rory's ear, causing a muffled exclamation and a cry of dismay as the toast landed marmalade-side down on the bedspread. He grinned to himself as he headed down the stairs. Just because you're truly, madly, deeply in love, you don’t have to be mushy all the time.
When he got back, a few minutes later, Rory was still sitting in bed, brushing away the toast crumbs and draining his tea. Charlie poured him a fresh cup and then walked around to his own side of the bed.
There was a small parcel there, on the pillow, wrapped in red paper and tied with silver ribbon.
"What's this?"
Rory mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, "For you."
"You got me a present?"
Rory nodded, and to Charlie's surprise his cheeks were slightly pink.
He was a bit surprised. While they had celebrated Valentine's Day in the past, it had generally been with a dinner or an outing, not presents. He picked the parcel up and looked over at Rory. What on earth could have Rory blushing?
"What is it?"
"Open it, you'll see."
Intrigued, he undid the ribbon and removed the wrapping paper. It was a small box, with a local jeweller's name on the lid. He opened it and found a silver ring. He looked at Rory, astounded.
"I know you miss your rings," said Rory in a low voice.
"I do." It was true, he'd worn rings for so long that his hands felt naked without them. He'd hated having to sell them - he'd hung on to them as long as he could - but the need for heroin had been too strong in the end, and they had followed all of his other possessions, exchanged for drugs. That Rory would have taken the trouble to buy him something that he really wanted brought tears to his eyes and he blinked them away, furiously.
He took the ring and tried it on. It was too large for his ring finger, but fit his middle finger exactly. "Thank you. It's perfect."
Rory blushed again, and Charlie threw his arms around him.
"I love you," he announced, planting kisses all over Rory's face. "You are the most wonderful man in the entire world, and I'm lucky to have you."
"Oh, weesht," muttered Rory.
"You can't fool me, Rory McManus. Beneath that rough, tough Glasgow exterior you're just a mushy romantic."
"Bugger that."
"Bugger me instead, you'll enjoy it more."
And he did.
Chapter 9.1
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